“No,” Nikolai repeated, as if he enjoyed how powerless it left them.
My father’s voice came out hoarse. “Then put it in writing that he won’t touch her until she consents.”
My throat burned.
Vincent’s mouth flattened. “She will be my wife. You don’t draft clauses about what a husband does with his wife.”
“She isn’t property,” Uncle Cole snapped.
“She is. Dynasties just hide it under etiquette.” Vincent adjusted his ring.
Damius’ mouth curved faintly, pleased by the cruelty.
All the nights Vince would say my worth was more. When really, he was just like every other man with a dynasty title. Bloodlines. Legacy.
I wasn’t worth more. I just fell in love with the lies he fed me by hand.
Uncle Zeke slammed his palm on the table. “You’re speaking about her like she’s an object.
“I don’t want a tattoo,” the sentence ripping free before I could swallow it. “I won’t do it.”
Vincent’s gaze flicked to me for half a second—quick, assessing—then away again, as if my preferences were background noise.
“I hate tattoos. I loathe them.” It sounded childish in this room. I hated that. I hated them for making me feel small. I hated myself for every night I’d traced his and called them art.
His sleeve shifted. Ink moved over muscle—crest-work, black and sharp.
A bitter, ugly laugh scraped my throat and died there.
“You’re covered in them. You wear them like armor, like proof. And you expect me to let you carve your family into my body like I’m?—”
“Stop,” Vincent said.
One word.
Uncle Cole snapped, “She said no.”
Damius’ lips twitched, like my desperation was mildly entertaining. “Her opinion is noted. It changes nothing.”
Uncle Zeke’s voice went tight with fury. “You’re forcing her.”
“We’re invoking Codex.”
The word felt like a hand closing around my throat with a signature.
“I don’t want him touching me. I don’t want any of you touching me.” My nails dug into my palms
Vincent’s face didn’t change.
Not a flicker.
I looked at the ink covering his skin, the rings, the way every man across the table carried himself like violence was a language he spoke fluently enough to make it sound polite.
“And you think you should have heirs? You think people like you should breed?”
“Choose your next sentence carefully,” Vincent finally looked at me properly.
The warning didn’t need volume. It had consequence built in.
